en natt så kall och månen den var klar

For a time, it went well. A few steps down the river, with only its quiet whispering to keep him company and the tips of his long tail dragging across its surface; the turbulence of his passage rippled out towards its banks, only to still and leave things exactly as they had been before he moved through. He'd even begun to hope he would be able to pass her unnoticed, slip past like the ghost he was, but isn't it always so? That the harder you try, the harder you fall?

She stirred. The shadows of her body lengthened and rose above earth, and there was never any hesitancy, never any question: she came straight for him. He stopped where he was. The river went on without him, still murmuring its quiet, sunny song—and life would always go on without him, whether he lived to watch it flow past, or died in its grasp.

"Mauja..."

Her voice echoed across the years, a familiar memory speaking his name, but where she had always been angry and upset in the past years, she sounded different now. Slowly, his ears tipped forward, and his pale eyes showed not the scorn he'd reserved for her as of late, but the kind of openness and honesty he wore as his armor. He had to give her that; she'd surprised him. Thoroughly. Unless she'd flip out in the next moment and start yelling. Which, given their history, was quite likely, and would be less surprising than this.. this, hesitantly genuine welcome. Or whatever it was. Wordlessly he nudged Diego awake, and told the bleary owl to take flight. After a moment's grumpy loitering he did, spreading his wings to join Irma up above, querying her in their own language as to what was going on, but she didn't answer.

He let them disappear into the blue, like so many other things. "It has," he replied after a moment, as she backed away, silent. It wasn't often that Mauja actively thought questions, instead of asking them or already knowing the answers, but now he did; what's going on here? He was wary, yes, but Irma said they were alone—and so, curiosity remained. And patience, glacial patience, despite the way he wanted to know what was going to happen. So he stood in the stream, immovable in the ever-moving, frozen, until her blue eyes opened again, and she came closer, pulled in by him. He didn't shift. Just kept on breathing, blinking, his pulse fleet under his icy skin. What do you want, Delinne?

She was very close all of a sudden, with just some half a yard of shallow water separating them. The tip of her horn glinted in the sunlight, and the white-dirty streaks through her coat shimmered; her sides were swollen. At least it couldn't be Azzaron's demon-spawn, because he was supposedly dead, something which had been both relieving and sort of disappointing to hear. "I... Uhm.. How... Are you?"

What.

His 'brows arched upwards. What was she doing? Acting like it suddenly didn't matter at all that he'd lied to her, and done his best to tear her and her precious boyfriend apart? Was this some kind of.. strange show of forgiveness, to be the better person, or did she do it just to nullify what he'd done? Like it didn't matter at all? If it was.. but was she capable of such callousness? To just, betray the memory of Azzaron like that? He had to admit, if she was doing it for those reasons, it was sort of irksome, because even if he didn't care anymore he still didn't like Azzaron. He didn't .. he didn't like failing. He didn't like the idea that his cruelty was nulled by.. by this.

But he didn't like being cruel, either. Not really. So it made the whole thing doubly strange, because he didn't beat himself up about what he'd done to her. He didn't have nightmares about their tears and proclamation of love. "Mauja, I'm going to be honest with you." Well, it could still be interesting, even if he knew what he was doing: shutting off his emotions. Shutting off his sanity. She was offering him the opportunity to hurt her more, to do all the things he didn't want to do, and it teased the beast in him. It teased the darkness and the ice. "I... I regret everything."

Why did he have to retreat into the beast, just because something became uncomfortable? Why did he have to become the ice-cold, heartless bastard she thought him to be around her? Because he wanted to? Felt obliged to, because it was what she thought he was? Because he couldn't let go of the past? Couldn't step down from his icy mountain and admit that he was fucking stupid? He was a drowning man who clung to a shipwreck, but none of it was real—he was drowning in dreams and air and for some reason couldn't stop thinking it was water. "I hate you like nothing else, but I've missed you."

At least some things were still the same. It teased a weak, humorless smile from him, just a curl of his dark lips, remnants of his far past, but the spark in his pale eyes was gone and he looked aside from her.

"You always make it too easy for the devil in me," he said quietly, watching the spring grass wave at the brook's edge. "How much would it take? A wicked smile and a tilt of my head, some well-chosen words with a nasty meaning hidden within?" His gaze swiveled back to her, intense. "It's so tempting Delinne, to be the bastard you call me." And maybe that alone made him the bastard? Because he had it in him, and in a way, wanted to let it out—to hurt her and drive her away. He was silent for a moment longer. What was she to him? What did she mean to him? She wasn't on his list of those he cared for—hadn't been since.. well, since when? If he'd truly cared for her, would he have given in to the devilish bent that day with Psyche?

Was he lying to himself if he tried to be kind to her now? He was no saint just because he'd laid off his old ideals.

"I think you do well to hate me," he finally said, an edge of defeat in his voice. "I am probably not very nice at all."

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